


Words Spoken In Winter

by Destina



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: Jeffrey reaches out from the future to soothe the pain of loss and regret.





	Words Spoken In Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written in 2004 as a Christmas present for Lapis Lazuli, but was never posted publicly. Thank you to iamsab/Sabine/Sab for beta. She passed away in 2013 and is still much missed. <3
> 
> Warning, this story will make absolutely zero sense if you are not familiar with B5 canon.

**Earth Year 1310  
The Minbari Homeworld**

 

Darall was accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night for any number of reasons. Often there was work to do that could not wait until morning, or that must be completed within a particular frame of time. His master carried a burden none of the rest of them could see. It was as though he could sense a shift in the universe, and knew when certain tasks must be performed. There were times Darall believed his master was much more than a prophet. 

He hurried down the darkened corridor, pausing to bow quickly to the acolytes that passed him. One must not be impolite, even in the course of doing one's duty. When he reached his destination he rang the door chimes, then waited. Soon enough Larann appeared, sleep-rumpled and grouchy, one arm of his garment dangling to the side as he shrugged into it. "What brings you here at this time of the morning, Darall?" 

"My apologies, Larann. I have come on an errand from my master. He has requested specific implements, and I do not have the means to obtain them." He handed Larann a small pad containing the requirements. 

Larann raised his eyebrow. "This is...archaic. For what purpose does he want them?"

"He did not specify. However, as you know, currency for these items will be deposited into your account as soon as I have them in hand."

"You're fortunate that I have them now. Wait here." Larann disappeared into the depths of his darkened quarters, then re-appeared with a large silver box and a smaller blue one, both fastened with golden clasps. He opened the boxes to display the old-fashioned paper and writing implements within. "Will this do?"

"Yes. These will do nicely. My thanks, Larann." Darall took both boxes and tucked them beneath one arm. 

"Your master is a strange one, Darall. Strange ideas, strange visions. I wonder what we are all coming to, when we are swayed by such radical notions."

"It is not for me to question Valen's wisdom," Darall said, and bowed slightly, as was proper, but without the pause for respect. "I only serve as I am asked to."

***

**Earth Year 2258  
Babylon 5**

 

There was a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet; the seal hadn't been broken yet, and its presence there was like a siren call. Michael could feel the lure of it, and the aftermath it would bring, like a beautiful woman scratching at his skin. He'd brought it on board the station with him, and in all this time he had never opened it. He was too proud of his sobriety, of pulling himself out of the bottom of the barrel by brute strength. All of a sudden the thing was like a millstone around his neck. 

He turned on his back and yanked the sheet over him, then shoved it away. He was hot, he was cold, his ribs hurt, his face was throbbing, and he was in need of a good painkiller. Franklin hadn't given him any. Probably the guy assumed that any man who stank of booze as much as Michael had earlier that day would find his own remedies. He was wrong, though. Or maybe he was right. 

"I'm not going to do it," Michael told himself grimly. "Not...going...to do it." In answer, his ribs gave a sharp twinge, as if to nudge him out of bed. He pressed one hand over them, placating them with comfort and hoping that would do the trick. 

The station's day cycle was still winding down. That was part of why he couldn't sleep. Out in space, with no sun or daylight to govern his sense of time, he'd learned to rely on the internal clock, the one that ran on a linear day - sixteen hours up and running, eight for sleep. Not that he ever got that eight hours. No, that was exactly the trouble. He wasn't built to rest. 

With a grimace of pain, he swung his legs around and let his feet hit the floor. Nothing had hurt this bad while he was on the run. Only when he stopped running did he actually feel the depth of his various aches and pains. "I need a good shot of adrenaline," he murmured. "That'd do the trick."

_No it wouldn't_ , the little voice in his head sneered. 

He got to his feet and looked around his quarters, as if there might be something to distract him. He didn't feel like watching anything - station entertainment was lame, and the feeds from Earth were expensive - and he didn't have anything to read. No interesting projects to keep him busy. 

His shirt lay on the floor where he'd thrown it. He picked it up, fingering the bloodstains ground into the fabric. He'd be lucky if the thing ever came clean. "Damn," he said, and tossed it back on the ground. He had a fresh uniform in the closet. He could put it on and get back to work. There was an idea. 

He liked it so much that he ran it by Franklin. "What do you think, Stephen?" he asked, yanking on his pants. 

"What do I think? Absolutely not. That's what I think. I said there was no reason you couldn't go back to work in a few days. A few days, Michael. Not right now. I ordered rest, and that's exactly what I want you to do, you got that?"

"Aw, come on. I'm a hundred percent. I'm ready to go. See?" He threw his arms out to the sides and smiled in what he hoped was a winning way. 

"Uh, no. What I see is someone who's going to get back in bed and get some sleep. Don't make me come down there and sedate you."

"All right, all right," Michael grumbled, though the sedating thing sounded like it wouldn't be half bad. He switched off the comm and put his hands on his hips. There was no one else to call. He wasn't tired. 

One drink might help him get to sleep. 

He wandered into the kitchenette, nonchalant, pretending to himself that he wasn't going to open the cupboard, or bring down the bottle, or grab a glass. He told himself that he wasn't interested in dulling the pain, or forgetting, or blocking out all the things he'd done in the past, all the things he still owed amends for. All the people he'd hurt. 

The seal came easily off the bottle, but he didn't uncap it. Instead he stood with one hand over the mouth of the glass, one hand clasped around the neck of the bottle. 

Jeff might have been wrong to give him another chance. How many second chances had he had, anyway? Felt like hundreds. It was less, but with every one he got, he knew he deserved it less. With every one he got, he disappointed one more person, let one more person down, failed someone. It was almost inevitable. 

The drink basically poured itself. It was more than a shot, less than a glass full, but the amount wasn't important. It was the intent. "Here goes nothin'," he said, and took a long, slow sip, then a gulp. Sweet, familiar burn; gentle warmth, spreading. "So much for second chances."

When the door chimes sounded, he shouted at them. "What?"

The muffled voice raised a belly full of remorse in Michael's gut. "Michael? It's Jeff."

He opened the cupboard and put the glass inside, still half-full of a guilty man's poison. Then he went to the door. 

***

Darall let himself into Valen's quarters without chiming first. As his assistant, this was his special privilege, and he was humbled by the great leader's trust in him. History would someday show that this was a pivotal moment in the formation of their world's future, and he was pleased to be a small part in it, an instrument of Valen's will. 

"Master?" he said softly. In the corner, sitting before a single lit candle, Valen raised his head. 

"Forgive me," he said. "I was...lost in thought. I didn't hear you enter."

"I am sorry if I have disturbed you, but I have brought the items you requested." He held them out in front of him, an offering of devotion. 

Valen smiled. "Bring them closer, so I may see them." When Darall opened the boxes, first one, then the other, and set them on the table, the glow of candlelight gave them a strange, antiquated beauty. "These are fine," Valan said, "quite fine." He withdrew the thin sheets of paper from the box and set the stack down on his desk, then took the writing instrument and laid it on top. "You're wondering why I asked you to obtain these items."

"It is not my place to -"

"Darall. If you're going to learn anything from me, you have to realize that you don't have a 'place'. Learning is the province of all, and we all have much to learn." 

Privately, Darall thought to himself that he would never presume to believe he could teach Valen anything, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said, "Master, I admit to being curious. Are you planning to set down a scroll of wisdom, as the elders used to do in the times before?"

"No. I have other plans for these materials. I am reaching into the future." Valen's fingers lingered over the paper, smoothing across the edges, then turning to draw down the surface. 

"A prophecy, Master? But I thought you said you had given all your prophecies, that you had none left to give."

"This is a different sort of prophecy." He smiled at Darall's inquisitive stare. "One I cannot share with you. Not now. There is much left to do in your lifetime, but this...this is for the times to come, when you and I are both gone."

"Is it for your children?" 

"No." Valen's smile grew wistful. "And now, Darall, I require a few hours of privacy. I have much to do."

"Of course, Master." Darall bowed low, and turned to go, but Valen called him back. 

"One thing more. If you would return at sunrise... I'll require your assistance."

"I will be here."

***

Jeff's uniform still looked fresh-pressed, like he'd just picked it up from the cleaners instead of running around in it all night. "I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?" he asked, and Michael smiled a half-smile, half-hearted. 

"Nah. I was just..."

"Just trying to convince Stephen to let you return to full duty?"

"Stephen has a big mouth."

"You didn't really expect him not to tell me, did you?" Jeff followed him inside and took a seat on the small couch. 

"I thought at least he might wait until morning. You had that reception."

"I want to be kept informed of everything that has to do with key personnel. You know that as well as anyone."

"Yeah, I guess I do." Michael sat down opposite Jeff. "Of course, the pants didn't give me away, right?"

"If I hadn't already known, they might have been a clue." Jeff smiled at him. 

"You all done with the diplomatic crap tonight?"

"More or less." Jeff sat back with a sigh and loosened the fastenings of his collar. "There's more to come tomorrow, though. I just thought I'd stop by on my way to my quarters and see...how you're doing. If there's anything you need."

Michael hesitated longer than he'd intended to, so that even he felt the awkwardness of his answer. "Not really, no. Thanks though."

"You're not in any pain? Stephen gave me specific instructions to find out." Jeff's eyes seemed to be boring right through him, straight though his pretense and into the core of his failure. 

"Oh, and he couldn't ask me?" Temper was his greatest enemy, and it was rising, irrational and misdirected. 

"I think he thought I'm a more reliable judge of what you do and don't need right now."

"Well, isn't that nice. Thank you very much, but I don't need a damn thing."

"Don't you?" Jeff had this way, this annoying, startling way, of opening up the channel and letting the information flow in. It wasn't like Michael didn't know that, wasn't wise to it, but sometimes the information *wanted* to flow in, like it had a mind of its own. Tonight, though, he thought he'd better not let it. 

"Something to do, maybe," he said, aware of how stupid it sounded, and then he fell silent. 

"Mike, if you're...If you want to talk, I'm here. And if you don't want to, we can play cards until you fall asleep over your losing streak. Either way."

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Better isn't the question. At the moment, I have nothing more important to do. If that helps." 

"I don't know if it does or not." Michael squirmed a little under Jeff's patient gaze. He got up, paced around the room a couple of times and ended up in the kitchen. The glass of booze was like the tell-tale heart. He was almost sure Jeff could see it blazing in there, trying to announce its presence and proclaim his weakness. "I was just thinking about...how I don't deserve second, third, tenth, fiftieth chances. I don't know why people - why you - keep giving them to me."

"Because you're a good man. Because when the circumstances demand that you do what's right, you do."

"That's just it. I don't." Michael slammed his hand down on the counter. "What about this was right in any way? I ran away from start to finish. I avoided responsibility, avoided her opinion of me. I could say I did it because I knew she thought I was guilty, but it was more than that."

"I know." 

"Well then, if you know, you also know what a shithead I am, right? And shitheads don't really deserve a break from their friends. Why aren't you pointing out to me what an asshole I am? Why don't you mention to me, just as an aside, that I'm a fucking disaster as a security chief?"

"Because you're doing a fine job of berating yourself. You don't need my help." 

"God dammit," Michael said, and hung his head. His ribs were killing him, again, and he wrapped an arm around them. 

"And you're not a disaster as security chief. I told you I couldn't run this place without you, and I meant it. Believe it." Michael had already turned away, but he could hear Jeff moving, coming closer, and the urge to burst out of there was so strong he could practically have torn a hole in the walls of the station with his bare hands. 

"It's hard to believe," he said, conscious down to his bones that Jeff was standing right beside him, quietly, not moving. 

"Mike." His warm hand covered Michael's, removing his hand from the bruised, scratched rib cage. "If you're hurting, let me call Stephen and get something for you."

"Oh, I'm hurting, all right. But I found my own medicine." He pointed to the cabinet, unwilling to meet Jeff's eyes as he moved around Michael and opened the door. He removed the glass and set it on the counter. "Tell me, Commander Sinclair - just exactly why is it you persist in thinking the best of me? Because I've got to tell you, I don't share your happy optimism."

"I know you," Jeff said simply. He touched Michael's face, tracing the bruise over his eye, distracting Michael's attention from his own troubles in less than a second. All of a sudden, what they had been talking about seemed a hell of a lot less important than this touch, this gentle absolution, and all it implied. 

Michael met his eyes, searching for something to latch onto, and found it without any difficulty. Jeff let him see it, didn't make him dig for it. When he closed the distance, he did it quickly, maybe so neither of them would have a chance to think or react or move away. Their lips touched briefly, enough to wake Michael's desire in ways it hadn't come to life since Lise, and Jeff's hands on his aching body felt as though they might heal his bruises by their presence alone. 

"Oh, man," Michael breathed, because Jeff had stepped back and the warmth retreated with him. "What..." He stopped, because Jeff had picked up the glass and poured the remaining whiskey down the sink, and capped the bottle. 

"This is coming with me," Jeff said, with a knowing smile on his face. 

"You, uh," Michael started, then stopped. "You're..." There was no good way to say it. So he just said it, though he knew already what the answer would be. "You could stay."

"I wish I could. But there's too much to do. More politicking. And you are under doctor's orders."

"Right," Michael said. He looked at Jeff, at the curve of his smile, and had a sudden fleeting certainty that if Jeff didn't stay, this kind of moment was never going to happen between them again. "You know that, uh."

"Yes. I do." Jeff picked up the bottle. "When I tell you I know what kind of man you are, I want you to believe me. When I tell you I couldn't run this place without you, believe that, too. And when I say...I wish I could stay --- well, you should believe that most of all."

Michael sighed. "We're not going to talk about this again, are we?"

"We're going to talk about a lot of things," Jeff said. "But I think there isn't much left to say about this."

"There's talking, and there's doing," Michael said, unable to resist.

Jeff just smiled. And then he pointed over Michael's shoulder. "Now get back in bed. Or I'll call Stephen."

"Okay, okay. You made your point." Michael threw his hands up and backed away, toward the bed, even as Jeff made his way to the door. 

For a moment, Jeff stood in the open doorway, watching Michael, a look of wistfulness on his face. 

"Good night, Michael," he said. Before Michael could say anything else - any of the hundred variations of thank you or why or the thousand questions spinning his head around - Jeff was gone. 

It was better, Michael thought, that there was no more talking. Because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers, anyway. 

***

"Don't hover in the doorway, Darall. It's impolite." 

Darall, startled by Valen's rebuke, stood up straight and edged into the room. He'd been waiting at the entrance for some time, loathe to disturb Valen's work, whatever it may be. He went to his master's side and stood ready. 

"How may I serve?"

"Can you make the years fold together, Darall? Can you erase the shadows of the future, or illuminate the moments where we will find our greatest regrets, so that we might never look back with sorrow?" Valen's voice was hoarse, as if he had been speaking for hours, but the words seemed to come from some deeper place, a place within where Darall could not see his heart. 

"Master?" Darall stepped forward, urged by an involuntary need to comfort him. He looked down at the page of writing and was struck by its alien nature; these words were not written in any language he was familiar with. "Master, what words are these? What language?"

"A language yet to be fully born. A language not yet spoken in its final form," Valen said. He folded the papers together, sealed them, and took up the implement, and the marks on the fine soft surface were strange and illegible to Darall. His eyes traveled them over and over, trying to make sense of what he saw: 

JEFFREY DAVID SINCLAIR 

"Is this a language you will teach me, Master?"

"No, Darall. This language isn't for you." He folded the next piece of paper and wrote DELENN across it, then sealed it carefully. 

Darall looked at Valen's face. His master's usual peaceful countenance was distorted by a sadness Darall had never seen in him. Words burbled up inside him, questions born of concern, but he did not dare speak them. He watched as Valen folded the last piece of paper, and wrote across it with a trembling hand: 

MICHAEL GARIBALDI

The sight of his master's hand shaking over those alien markings sent a shiver of fear through Darall.

"And now I have a task for you," Valen said. "Remember what I've said, for it's vital to the future of the Minbari that you do so. This must be set down in the record for generations to come. Do you understand?"

"Of course," Darall said, without truly understanding. 

"This document is to be sealed in the sanctuary until the date I have recorded here." He handed the first of the three to Darall, and a data pad with it. "Make certain the document is twice protected, in a chest you have sealed personally, and that only the members of the Order have access to it."

"Yes, Master," Darall said, and he held them both loosely in his hands; Valen's writings were the most precious of all things he would ever be given custody of, and he was conscious of his obligations. 

"This letter--" Valen passed the second into Darall's hands, "--is to be given to this person, at these coordinates, on the date and time instructed. As is this one," he added, and handed over the third. His fingers were slow to withdraw; Darall knew all three documents had special significance, but this last...

"Do you have any additional instructions, Master?"

Valen rose from his chair, a bit stiffly, and stretched his body. "Instructions? No. Only advice," he said. "Don't deny yourself happiness, Darall. Always take what comes to you, in whatever form you may find it. Once it has passed you by, you may find that the things you once took for granted are more precious to you than all the things at your fingertips."

"My master is wise," Darall said. 

Valen favored him with a sad smile. "Not wise, Darall. It's only that I've lived longer than you. Much, much longer." He turned his face toward the candle. "There are things one can't know until one has found the proper illumination."

***

**Earth Year 2260  
Babylon 5**

It took Michael a while to work up the courage to open the letter. It sat unopened on the table, practically giving off its own vibrations, for a week. After that, he moved it to the kitchen counter, where he'd stand and stare at it sometimes while drinking his morning approximation of caffeine. 

Eventually he bit the bullet and broke the seal, but he didn't really have the guts to run straight through it after he saw that the handwriting was Jeff's, that it wasn't some kind of wacky trick. So he folded it carefully back up and left it alone a few more days, until he was ready. 

He thought about getting drunk, first. But this was a letter from Jeff, and he wanted a clear head. 

In the end, he realized he shouldn't have worried. It was typical Jeff: simple, to the point, sentimental. A message he could understand on sight. Closure.

_Michael,_

_Delenn has all the answers you're looking for to all the questions I anticipate you'll have to ask. I know the message I left wasn't enough, but it's all I could risk. We will never see each other again; Delenn will explain why. I wish you luck, old friend, and a full and happy life._

_Hindsight seems clear, but it can trick you sometimes. Even so, I want you to know that I should have stayed._

_Jeff_

When Michael folded the letter back up and tucked it in with his personal effects, the sting of missed chances was at the back of his throat. He filed the feeling away with the rest of his regrets; the taste of it was familiar to him now. 

**Author's Note:**

> _...In a certain faraway land, the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time, then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer._
> 
>  
> 
> _\- Plutarch_


End file.
